Chapter One: Death came later for me

Leaving the United States isn't guaranteed

Death came later for me.

Along with the trauma.

Along with the pain.

Along with the joy, too.

Singularly and collectively, those moments were exposed, naked and raw, under the glare of a 24-hour news cycle; magnified by an unrelenting social media echo chamber.

Prior to any of that, prior to all of that, my focus was to simply be allowed into Europe.

Visiting Ukraine, reporting from Ukraine was my intention, but it was also a hopeful wish.

Reporting in a war zone, specifically from one of the main fronts of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, was unfathomable and staying for well over 100 days inconceivable, as I arrived at Miami International Airport for the first leg of a tedious multiday trip to Poland.

There at the airport, during a time when masks and vaccine cards were a mandatory part of the flying experience, the gate agent wouldn’t check me in, the airline refused to allow me to fly.

With my concern over being allowed into Europe already coming to the fore, a bureaucratic quagmire stopping me in the moment from even from flying to New York, and the documents prepped to explain my case being ignored, tears, borne of frustration and helplessness and doused in self-loathing, silently streamed from my eyes.

I’m transgender.

My Nevada issued driver’s license states my name is Sarah Ashton-Cirillo, and that I’m a female born in 1977. The card showing my Covid-19 vaccine history, issued by the Southern Nevada Health District, contains matching information.

My passport, issued by the US Department of State, says my name is Michael John Cirillo, and that I’m a male born in 1977.

Due to frequent trips to Mexico, and an expiration date more than a half decade away, I never updated my passport, nor had I needed to.

Customs and immigration agents on both sides of the US – Mexico border had never had an issue with my documentation, although eyebrows were occasionally raised over the significant difference in my appearances pre and post transition, and so the thought hadn’t crossed my mind that I’d be refused exit from the US, only that agents in Europe would possibly give me a hard time entering the EU.

The problem though, wasn’t my passport appearance or the discrepancy in gender, it was over a snafu that wouldn’t have existed two years prior.

Being that my vaccine card was issued in my legal name, Sarah, and I needed to use the passport as ID to board any leg of an international flight, the original airline employees denied me the right to check in since “Michael” wasn’t vaccinated.  

Shuffled out of the line, alone, the clock ticked away.

Between feebly tweeting the airline on Twitter and making desperate attempts to reach some politicians back home in Nevada, in that moment I hated myself for being trans and I hated myself for even thinking that flying to a continent at war was a good idea.

After sending the messages, and composing myself enough to regain focus, I began looking for someone, anyone, who seemed friendly enough to listen to my plight, if not be able to help me directly.

I found her.

Handing over all of my paperwork, including the legal order showing my name change, she disappeared for about 10 minutes and came back smiling.

Forcefully instructing a new gate agent to override the system, she also made sure notes were placed in my reservation to ensure I’d have smooth travel the rest of the way.

Everything was set and by the time I made my connection in New York, all I wanted was sleep.

Whatever was to come upon my arrival on the other side of the Atlantic would find me anyway, so I dozed off and soon enough found myself surrounded by sunflowers and chaos at the Berlin Hauptbanhoff, readying myself for a thirteen-hour train ride to the Polish – Ukrainian border.